“and slow–spreading rising without grace

into an indifferent sky no one would paint” 

~ Burning Oak, November, Joyce Carol Oats

I have never witnessed an indifferent sky in Scotland. Scottish skies are either threatening impending doom or wearing a blue so bright it stuns the eyes.

My favorite days on the Isle of Mull were spent watching the approach of clouds as they honed in on the mountains. Fascinated by the clouds of bruised purple that engulf the low peak of Ben More. I climb to the top and stand inside the clouds feeling them breathe, feeling the heartbeat of the mountain, learning ancient lessons. Ben More embraces me with its wisdom. The voices of my ancestors saying welcome home. And I breathe, knowing I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Some days I sit on a bench facing the Sound of Mull. The sky is marble blue and sheep’s wool clouds move in on the prevailing winds. The water is a smooth cerulean blue. The clouds morph from sheep’s wool to steel wool and the water shifts to a choppy slate gray. With each change of the clouds the water changes. It only takes an instant. Time is lost to me, has no meaning. All that matters is me, the clouds, and the water. I breathe, knowing I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Rebekah Spivey 2019

For The Poplar Grove Muse